Something stirs in Dusk.
Senna glanced up from his desk, quill hovering to a stop over the letter he'd been penning. A white falcon haloed by sunset gold perched on his windowsill, her wings outstretched as she preened her feathers with rapt precision. The motion looked oddly like a woman smoothing wrinkles from the skirt of her evening gown.
Something of significance.
A bead of ink oozed out from the nobleman's suspended quill and dripped onto the parchment, ruining the tail of a swirling capital W. He glanced at it with distaste before folding the unfinished letter in half and brushing it into a basket overflowing with similarly-fated paper. He would have one of his advisors write it over for him tomorrow. The task was of little importance anyhow — he'd simply needed something to do, unable to cope with staying idle. But now...
“Something of significance,” he murmured, “stirs in Terrastella.” It was intriguing news, and — not in the least unwelcome. Raum's tyrannical reign was driving all of the court to madness, himself included, because bloodborne tyrant kings cared exceedingly little for noble opinion. Bureaucracy wasted away to bone, and order had long fled for the hills.
He'd always believed, mistakenly, that it fled in the direction of Dusk.
Was Vespera's noble court of healers finally joining the fray of discord ignited by dear Solterra?
"Well, don't keep me in suspense." Nestor's black eyes narrowed in wry satisfaction. Silently, she glided to his desk and settled upon a stack of books ridged with identical golden spines.
The Halcyons. The name struck a spark of recognition in Senna's eyes. But it was only that. A spark. Nestor lowered her beak and tapped at one of the spines she stood upon. A Fabled History of Terrastella. You do not involve yourself much in Terrastellan affairs. Perhaps now is the time to reacquaint.
But not only did Nestor point; she had brought something for him as well. From a satchel slung over her wings, she drew out a slim book wrapped in faded brown leather. There was no title save for an insignia of golden wings stamped on its cover. The falcon opened the book to a marked page in the middle, raised it to Senna, and tapped at one of the sketches with a yellow talon. A suit of armor was illustrated on the page in stunning detail.
A hunt has begun, Seneca, for the Pegasi unit's armor of legend. They call it Prudence.
❦
Dusk was a quiet kingdom; the antithesis to her hotblooded brother of Sun. In all his years at court, Senna had never found a reason to visit their ivy-draped citadel, nor keep more than a handful of spies reporting back to him from Terrastella. Between Delumine's great library, Denocte's longstanding distrust, and Solterra's penchant for switching out sovereigns like ladies switched out their bonnets, Terrastella had sat for years like a mist-shrouded isle across the sea from a warring continent. Warships did not visit isles of peace, unless the isle had something it wanted.
And what Senna wanted, was Prudence.
His ship and most of the crew he'd chartered lay moored on a rocky strip of sand west of the Praistigia Cliffs. He'd taken only a young, palomino errand boy with him named Kite (the irony had not escaped him — with Nestor, they made a triad of raptors). Kite was Dusk-born but Solterran-raised; and if the boy was as useful as he claimed to be, he'd be well on his way to becoming House Hajakha's newest Terrastellan ambassador.
The sun hung low over the bruising sky when they at last set eyes on Vespera's court of dreams.
And what a sight it was. Senna let his eyes widen just a fraction as he stepped into a scene stolen right from the pages of Sol's fairy books. Clouds dipped in lavender and lapis, slender buildings draped with flowering ivy, bakeries and apothecaries nestled in street corners as cozy as nesting doves. It was, as Kite had regaled to him, a chiaroscuro of moonlight and poetry.
It was, as he'd assumed, entirely too much. "We will be late if we dawdle," he said. But they were not late, even when they did dawdle at a lamplit tavern for a pint of much-needed refreshment. It was when the clocktower tolled exactly eight bells, that Senna and Kite found themselves approached in the darkening streets by two winged cadets in bronze helmets.
Between them stood a woman, oil-slick black in the night. Her slate grey eyes were long lashed and cutting. Senna recognized her immediately.
"Commander Marisol."
Senna glanced up from his desk, quill hovering to a stop over the letter he'd been penning. A white falcon haloed by sunset gold perched on his windowsill, her wings outstretched as she preened her feathers with rapt precision. The motion looked oddly like a woman smoothing wrinkles from the skirt of her evening gown.
Something of significance.
A bead of ink oozed out from the nobleman's suspended quill and dripped onto the parchment, ruining the tail of a swirling capital W. He glanced at it with distaste before folding the unfinished letter in half and brushing it into a basket overflowing with similarly-fated paper. He would have one of his advisors write it over for him tomorrow. The task was of little importance anyhow — he'd simply needed something to do, unable to cope with staying idle. But now...
“Something of significance,” he murmured, “stirs in Terrastella.” It was intriguing news, and — not in the least unwelcome. Raum's tyrannical reign was driving all of the court to madness, himself included, because bloodborne tyrant kings cared exceedingly little for noble opinion. Bureaucracy wasted away to bone, and order had long fled for the hills.
He'd always believed, mistakenly, that it fled in the direction of Dusk.
Was Vespera's noble court of healers finally joining the fray of discord ignited by dear Solterra?
"Well, don't keep me in suspense." Nestor's black eyes narrowed in wry satisfaction. Silently, she glided to his desk and settled upon a stack of books ridged with identical golden spines.
The Halcyons. The name struck a spark of recognition in Senna's eyes. But it was only that. A spark. Nestor lowered her beak and tapped at one of the spines she stood upon. A Fabled History of Terrastella. You do not involve yourself much in Terrastellan affairs. Perhaps now is the time to reacquaint.
But not only did Nestor point; she had brought something for him as well. From a satchel slung over her wings, she drew out a slim book wrapped in faded brown leather. There was no title save for an insignia of golden wings stamped on its cover. The falcon opened the book to a marked page in the middle, raised it to Senna, and tapped at one of the sketches with a yellow talon. A suit of armor was illustrated on the page in stunning detail.
A hunt has begun, Seneca, for the Pegasi unit's armor of legend. They call it Prudence.
Dusk was a quiet kingdom; the antithesis to her hotblooded brother of Sun. In all his years at court, Senna had never found a reason to visit their ivy-draped citadel, nor keep more than a handful of spies reporting back to him from Terrastella. Between Delumine's great library, Denocte's longstanding distrust, and Solterra's penchant for switching out sovereigns like ladies switched out their bonnets, Terrastella had sat for years like a mist-shrouded isle across the sea from a warring continent. Warships did not visit isles of peace, unless the isle had something it wanted.
And what Senna wanted, was Prudence.
His ship and most of the crew he'd chartered lay moored on a rocky strip of sand west of the Praistigia Cliffs. He'd taken only a young, palomino errand boy with him named Kite (the irony had not escaped him — with Nestor, they made a triad of raptors). Kite was Dusk-born but Solterran-raised; and if the boy was as useful as he claimed to be, he'd be well on his way to becoming House Hajakha's newest Terrastellan ambassador.
The sun hung low over the bruising sky when they at last set eyes on Vespera's court of dreams.
And what a sight it was. Senna let his eyes widen just a fraction as he stepped into a scene stolen right from the pages of Sol's fairy books. Clouds dipped in lavender and lapis, slender buildings draped with flowering ivy, bakeries and apothecaries nestled in street corners as cozy as nesting doves. It was, as Kite had regaled to him, a chiaroscuro of moonlight and poetry.
It was, as he'd assumed, entirely too much. "We will be late if we dawdle," he said. But they were not late, even when they did dawdle at a lamplit tavern for a pint of much-needed refreshment. It was when the clocktower tolled exactly eight bells, that Senna and Kite found themselves approached in the darkening streets by two winged cadets in bronze helmets.
Between them stood a woman, oil-slick black in the night. Her slate grey eyes were long lashed and cutting. Senna recognized her immediately.
"Commander Marisol."
@Marisol | "senna" nestor | notes: <33
